


Toska

by onlyacoffee



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Canon Era, Family, Friendship, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-02-12 23:26:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2128422
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onlyacoffee/pseuds/onlyacoffee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t snowing yet, though the heavy, overcast sky and still air, unusual for this early in the evening, were enough for Combeferre to predict the city would wake tomorrow under a smooth white blanket. Everyone had already gone South, to pass the holidays with their families. </p>
<p>Still, this left Feuilly, sitting alone by the fireplace of the Musain, quietly drinking cooling coffee and staring at the book he had set on the table.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Toska

**Author's Note:**

> _written for takethewatch on tumblr!_
> 
>  
> 
> _toska (Russian) : a dull ache of the soul, a longing with nothing to long for._

_december, 1831_

It wasn’t snowing yet, though the heavy, overcast sky and still air, unusual for this early in the evening, were enough for Combeferre to predict the city would wake tomorrow under a smooth white blanket. From the window of the café he could see a few people walking along, bundled up in coats, carrying bread and baskets filled with enough reserves for a few days, should the weather make their daily errands impossible.

Combeferre hoped his trip would not be delayed - he was scheduled to leave for his home in the Midi the next day, after breakfast. His suitcases were already packed - of course, he had thought about and prepared what to bring for nearly two weeks before he felt ready enough to leave - and so he had chosen to spend the evening in the Musain, enjoying the café’s warm, hearty ambiance for the last time in a month. 

Of all his friends, Feuilly was the only one still in Paris; everyone had gone South, to pass the holidays with their families. Grantaire with a cousin of his, who had showed up last month after years of previously unexplained absence with a dark tan and stories that lit Grantaire’s eyes with joy and mirth; Courfeyrac, Enjolras, Prouvaire to the lavish parties their parents organized each year, all of them apparently requiring a son’s presence (though none of his friends enjoyed them particularly); Bahorel had left with his parents, who had come to visit Paris late in November; Joly was with his mother and younger sisters, Bossuet with Musichetta and her family - who, coincidentally, was also from the Midi. Combeferre would soon join them, and his mind supplied him with detailed images of his grandmother’s beloved kitchen, the smells of enormous meals cooking, the sounds of a dozen cousins dancing in the parlour; every year he looked forward to this time of the year with an almost childish glee.

But all of this left Feuilly, sitting alone by the fireplace of the Musain, quietly drinking cooling coffee and staring at the book he had set on the table. His eyes were going up and down the page, left and right, though Combeferre knew he was not truly acknowledging the words. After years and years of devouring every book he could put in hands on, Feuilly was a speedy reader - yet he had not turned the pages since Combeferre had quietly sat next to him - nearly ten minutes ago, now. 

At first the Friends all quietly worried for Feuilly during the holidays. Some showed it more than others, though Feuilly always dismissed their concern with a reassuring smile - as he was generally wont to do. Today, though, he seemed concerned. A little tired, perhaps, judging from the circles drawn under his eyes.

Combeferre knew Feuilly rather well - or at least, after everything, he hoped he did. He knew something was bothering his friend, that much was obvious, although he did not want to assume what exactly was on his mind. He also knew Feuilly well enough to know that he would speak, eventually, if he wished to, and was not to be forced to discuss his troubles.

"You are leaving tomorrow?" when they finally came, the younger man’s words almost made Combeferre jump.

"Yes, I am," Combeferre tried not to let his relief show. 

Feuilly nodded, and was quiet again for a moment. He turned the page of his book.

"Prouvaire asked me to come home with him, last week," he eventually said, looking down at the page. "It was kind of him."

"But you declined."

Feuilly acquiesced again.

"You would have been welcome," Combeferre said softly, putting a hand on his friend’s shoulder. "Do not doubt that you are our brother. I am sure it is not too late yet, if you want -“

"No," Feuilly cut him off, looking up at Combeferre for the first time. "That is - I mean, thank you, but no. I do not especially regret turning Prouvaire down. Well, I do, in some measure - he did look disappointed, I think, and that is a little heartbreaking to witness, isn’t it?"

He smiled fondly and looked down at his book again; he turned the page again, back to the one he was not-reading before the conversation started.

"Actually, I was thinking about how I don’t especially mind staying here. Is that odd? I do not have a family to visit - I have never known that the way you all do."

Combeferre carefully watched Feuilly’s face as he spoke, expecting the red blush that graced his cheeks whenever emotions of any kind were brought up. This time, however, Feuilly’s skin didn’t colour, but his expression remained soft, affectionate even, a small smile gracing his lips. Although there was a sort of longing in his eyes he seemed strangely happy. Content. Easy.

"I visit the orphanages, when I have time. It passes the time, but more than that, I think - well, sometimes I bring presents, when I can. It makes the children happy. In fact, I did today," he ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, chuckling. "I am not very good with children, Combeferre - in fact I always thought I was pretty terrible with them. I never know what to do when they’re crying, or even what the younger ones are saying most of the time - but I think they are starting to like me, after all. Even without presents of pastries. Perhaps - " he shook his head, but did not continue.

"There are a lot of children in my family," Combeferre began, carefully at first. "I never quite know what to do with them either, but I enjoy their presence. They change so much from year to year, and sometimes I think that one day I will finally be able to talk to them all, but I fear my cousins are not quite done bringing children to this world yet."

Feuilly chuckled again, and Combeferre could not help but smile with him.

"Good," Feuilly said, nodding, and for a instant Combeferre thought he might be imitating Enjolras - voluntarily or not. "Children make the world seem brighter, don’t they?"

Combeferre squeezed Feuilly’s shoulder. 

"They do."

"So it seems like our holidays aren’t that different, after all," Feuilly was still smiling. "Please don’t worry about me - besides, I know I will see my brothers again in no time at all."


End file.
